


Monsters

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tv-universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 Ficlets, ranging from Pre-Series to Season Three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tv_universe community, for the "monsters" theme prompt (five literal or metaphorical monsters that a character has faced in his life).
> 
> * * *

**01\. Homophobia**  
(Pre-Series)

Merle pauses in the doorway, blissful air conditioning at his back, the slap of the thick humid air in his face. He grits his teeth, ignores the mick behind the counter yelling at him to close the damn door. He's barely been in the store five minutes, just long enough to grab a couple of packs of smokes and a cheap bottle of whiskey. 

Merle's eyes narrow as he takes in Daryl, leaning against the truck. Boy's filled out some since he went away; took him to his sophomore year, but he's gained some muscle, finally growing into those shoulders. But his little brother has been changing in other ways, too. 

Merle follows Daryl's gaze, stiffens and flips the mick the bird before he lets the door slam at his back. 

He's got work to do.

* * *

"Eyes up front!"

Daryl falls when Merle's cuffs him across the head, shakes his hair out of his eyes and snarls up at his brother. "What the fuck, Merle?"

"You think I don't know what you were lookin' at? Think I don't see you eyein' that little faggot?"

"I don't know what you're—"

"Don't lie to me, boy," Merle says as he leans down.

Daryl tries to scramble back on the concrete, eyes darting back and forth to see if anyone is watching Merle humiliate him in the middle of fucking Main Street. He winces when Merle's hand squeezes his neck, when Merle hauls him up by the collar. "Let fuckin' go!"

Merle slams him into the door of the truck, hard enough to make his eyes roll back in his head. He opens his mouth again, shuts it quickly when Merle leans in to breathe a cloud of whiskey in his face. "I said, don't lie to me," Merle says softly. 

Daryl holds his breath, prays that Dwayne and his ma have moved on down the street. Dwayne with his pressed shirts and his perfect test scores, who never makes him feel like a dirty hick, never sneers at him for the way he talks. Dwayne, who leans in close to him during study hall and laughs at his stupid jokes. Dwayne, who was starting to make him believe that maybe he wasn't the only freak in the county, that maybe it was okay to feel the way he feels about other boys.

"You stay away from that kid," Merle says. Daryl tries not to look surprised, knows he's failed when Merle's lips twist in a sneer. "Yeah, I know him. I'm keepin' an eye on you, baby brother. Gotta make sure you grow up right."

"Let me go, Merle!"

"He's a fag, Daryl. You hang out with fags, people start to think you're a fag, too." 

"I ain't no fag," Daryl says quickly.

"Better not be. Not if you know what's good for ya. I'm growin' you up to be a real man, little brother, not some weak-wristed pansy." He gives Daryl's collar a shake. "You hear me?"

"I hear ya, Merle! Now get off me, bitch!"

Merle releases him so quickly that Daryl stumbles, nearly falls back onto the gravel. He wipes his stinging hands on his jeans, only dares to look across the street when Merle has turned his back and is heading toward the driver's door. He breathes a sigh of relief when the sidewalk outside the drug store is clear. 

Not that it matters. Whatever he was feeling for Dwayne, he can't feel. Whatever he was going to be, he can't be. 

Daryl swears he feels a part of himself blacken inside, turn to charcoal and etch a hole deep inside him. 

He won't cry. He's not ever going to let Merle see him cry.

* * *

Merle whistles when he pulls out of the parking lot, drums his fingers atop the steering wheel and nods to himself. That went well. Put the fear of God and Dixon into the boy. Scare him straight.

It ain't easy raising a kid these days.

 

**02\. Walkers**  
(Pre-Series)

They come around the corner at the rear of the alley, a dozen or more. Drawn by the sound of the cases being loaded into the bed of the truck, to the rattle of bottles and Merle's shouted demands. 

Daryl swings his crossbow up onto his shoulder, ignores Merle's curse when the last brown bag drops out of his hands and shatters on the cement. Ignores, too, the splash of liquor that soaks the bottom of his trousers and the sweet scent of the rum that briefly overpowers the rotting, festering stench of the dead. 

Walkers. That's what they were calling them before the newscasters disappeared and the scrolling lists of 'safe havens' filled the TV screen. 

Daryl sets his sight, takes one out with a shot to the head. Watches blood and brains splatter onto the brick wall and repeats the word to himself as he loads a second arrow, as Merle's gun blasts next to him. Walkers. Just animated dead things to be put down. No better than rabid dogs.

Not Mr. Pacey from the pharmacy. Not Chester and Dave from the mill. Not Mike, who once pressed him up against the wall in this very alley and stuck a calloused hand into his pants and made him come harder and quicker than he's ever come in his life.

He fires until the alley is clear, and doesn't look at their faces as he pulls spent arrows from decaying skulls. 

Merle props a bottle of whiskey on his lap, throws on some Merle Haggard when they peel down the road. And Daryl keeps his eyes forward, doesn't watch the town where he spent his whole damn life fade into the distance. And if he sees movement from the corner of his eye, he doesn't look too closely. 

They're just walkers. Just dead things. 

 

**03\. Loneliness**  
(Episode 106: TS-19)

They talk, after the laughter and the liquor, sitting around the table and feeling stuffed with more food than they've had in weeks. 

It's the first time he lets his guard down. The longest time that he's spent without thoughts of Merle swirling round his head, reminding him that he failed, that he left his brother alone and injured in the city of the dead. That he chose helping a bunch of misfits that can barely take care of themselves over searching for his own kin, his own blood.

Daryl cradles the bottle of Southern Comfort in his arm and listens. Nobody drinks too much and picks a fight; nobody slams a fist on the table, making the bottles jump and quiver. Nobody side-eyes him or makes him the butt of a joke.

He feels himself slowly start to relax. 

He starts to think that maybe he could belong here, with these people. 

Then Grimes and his wife wander off, walking so close that their shoulders brush, smiling at each other like a couple of newlyweds. Carol wrangles the kids into submission. The old man leads Andrea off, talking quietly and patting her hand. 

One by one they leave, until only the kid – Glenn – is left. The kid sits quietly for a moment before pushing off from the table, staggering before righting himself. Lifts a hand and gives him a feeble smile as he leaves the room, quickening his steps to catch up with T-Dog and Jacqui. 

Daryl stares at the shiny surface of the table, sees only himself reflected there. Raises the bottle and drinks deep. 

 

**04\. Infection**  
(Episode 213: Beside the Dying Fire)

_We're all infected._

Daryl shakes his head, focuses on the distant tree line, on the road that is merely a grey smudge in a sea of blackness. He strains to hear past the waterfall at his back and the murmurs of the survivors still awake and restless. He holds his breath, catches nothing more than the faint sound of claws skittering over the gravel at the side of the road. 

No shuffling footsteps. No snarling moans.

_We're all infected._

He looks over his shoulder, can just make out the silhouettes of his people huddled around the banked fire. Lori, with Carl's head pillowed on her lap, her hand moving aimlessly over his hair; Hershel with his arms around his daughters. T-Dog wearing a groove into the dirt. Carol, curled into a ball as close to the fire as she can get. He has no doubt that her eyes are open, that she's staring sightlessly into the dark. 

He'll do whatever he can do protect them.

_We're all infected._

Daryl turns his attention back to the road, adjusts the strap of his crossbow before digging his gun out of his pocket. Backup only, with the way sound attracts the walkers. But he's made sure to keep it fully loaded at all times, made sure to clean it regularly. 

He studies the silent night for a moment before sliding it open, slipping a bullet out of the chamber. He studies the dull casing in the moonlight before tucking the bullet into the pocket of his vest. He's not intending on getting bit anytime soon, but if it happens… he knows what to do. He'll never endanger his family.

 

**05\. The Governor**  
(Episode 313: Arrow on the Doorpost)

Daryl shakes his head when Rick tells them about the meeting place, the rules. Nothing about it feels right. 

But he knows the area that Rick is talking about, the old dilapidated buildings two-three miles south. It's not the optimum spot – the buildings are too close together, too many blind alleys between them – but his skills are better than most. 

"I can take him out," he says as soon as Rick's finished speaking.

"No!" Rick says fiercely. "This is our chance to have a dialogue with the man. To work this out like civilized human beings. We're not savages, Daryl."

Daryl shuts his mouth, but he remembers the crowds surrounding him and Merle in that arena, baying like dogs. He remembers the vicious shouts of "kill them", the way the people of Woodbury clamoured eagerly for his blood. 

Mostly, he remembers the look in the Governor's eye. He knows there is nothing civilized about that man. Not anymore.

He dips his head in acquiescence when Rick glares at him, meets Merle's eye across the room and shifts the crossbow on his back. 

He'll go to the meeting. He'll act as Rick's muscle. But he's going to keep his options option.


End file.
